


Shades of the Ghostwinds

by kizuke



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: M/M, Mentions Canonical Pairings, Mentions possible future threesome, Spoilers for Republic of Thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 22:22:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11262207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kizuke/pseuds/kizuke
Summary: It's possible that Lucarno's plays weren't meant to be used as a romantic guide, but—being dead—he's hardly going to object.





	Shades of the Ghostwinds

They're not being jerked around like marionettes; they haven't any pressing obligations; they're not being pursued. They even have enough supplies to last a few days. It's a novel feeling, and Locke's pretty sure they're both supposed to be enjoying it. Even the weather is fine: cool enough that trudging along on foot to the nearest town isn't too much of a trial, yet warm enough to sleep out in the open, under the stars.

The last time they'd had this kind of leisure, of course, was when they were sailing to Locke's death along the coast and up the River Cavendria. Even then, with Ezri's death so soon in their wake, Jean hadn't been this reticent. Angry, guilty, sorrowful and hopeful in turns; but never silent. And, of course, they'd had to sail the gods-damned boat, which had been a constant trial.

Now, with each passing hour, Jean's silence becomes more forbidding. And with nothing to distract him, Locke's thoughts keep churning, darkly: key, crown, child; _Lamor Acanthus_ ; Sabetha's cheek on the safehouse pillow just before he'd fallen asleep. (Why had he even slept? He should have memorised the cadence of her very breath all night long.)

It reminds him, a little, of when they'd all gone to Espara, all five of them: trundling along in that carriage with nothing good to say to anyone; a jumble of egos and pheromones, with Jean in the midst of it, long-suffering. It's as good a lead-in as any.

"Remember those ten days to Espara?" Locke casts a grin Jean's way. "We were all insufferable."

Jean smiles a little. "'Were'?"

"More even than usual. I'm glad to have left those years behind."

Jean casts him a speaking look.

"What?"

"Some things don't change, that's all." A shadow falls over his face again, and Locke just can't let him go to that place again, wherever it is. He nudges Jean with a sharp elbow.

"No: this time I took five years just to talk to Sabetha, and five seconds to fuck it all up again," Locke says, as lightly as he can manage. "I think I might have been better at love at sixteen."

Jean is silent for a time, and then quotes from Lucarno: "'Youth, bank not your flames. For none can break what time has tempered.'"

Locke presses close, offering Jean some meagre comfort. "'And in the smouldering hearth what shall not grow?'"

Jean leans against him for a bit, then shoves him away with his shoulder. Locke stumbles a couple of steps away, laughing. "We were talking about you, asshole."

"And now we're talking about you, idiot." Locke studies Jean's face. His harsh contemplation seems to have slackened somewhat, so Locke decides to push his luck. "What is it? It wasn't like this before Lashain."

"You can never leave well enough alone, can you?"

He doesn't bother with an answer. Instead, he bumps up against Jean again, sidestepping gracefully when Jean halfheartedly swats at him. He tries again: "It's Ezri, isn't it?"

Jean says nothing. Locke knows, by now, the signs that Jean's nearly done stewing over something and can use a bit of a push, but it doesn't always take the first time. It's alright; he can wait.

They have a good few hours yet to make it to the next town, by his reckoning. The sun is getting lower in the sky now - its glare so bright he has to shield his face, or turn away so he's facing Jean. When it sets, the sky will be flushed with brilliant colours that deepen gently into night - beautiful, if the last two days are any indication. But he has to admit there's nothing quite like the sunset over the sea: shimmering water stretching out into the horizon, painted all colours. He almost misses it.

"Jean?" he prompts, when he judges it's been long enough.

Jean scrubs at his face, heaving an explosive sigh. "I don't know, Locke," he growls, frustrated.

"Shall I guess?"

"Have at it."

"Ever since we set off in that boat, you haven't had the time or space to grieve properly - because of me," he admits ruefully, "and then because of the Bondsmagi. So now that we have a bit of space to think, it's all coming back."

He swallows painfully. "You two really had something. Anyone could see it. And I'm sorry that - you know. That you - lost her." His voice, heavy with sorrow, cracks under the strain. "Crooked Warden, if Sabetha - I can't even imagine it, Jean."

Jean stops in the middle of the road, chest heaving. He shuts his eyes, expelling a long, controlled breath. "And?"

"And," Locke repeats, faltering. Jean presses his palms to his eyes and just - waits. But Locke, for once, has no idea what to say. "I - I don't know, Jean," he says, finally. "Are you still angry with me? For - ?"

"Yes, I'm angry at you!" Jean bursts out. "And no, not because I think you killed her. Thirteen Gods, Locke!" He reaches out as if to shake Locke, but his hands curl up and he drops them, defeated; his gaze drops. Finally, it comes out, in a small voice: "I almost lost you, too."

"And I'm not sorry, Jean. You were about to do the same to me." And he doesn't think he'll ever be sorry, even though it was a torture he'll never forget. He tries to keep his tone gentle, to hide the exasperation. "Haven't we been over this?"

"It's not that - not _just_ that. It's that you never think it's - " Jean screws his eyes shut again, carving heavy lines along his brow.

"Look. I love Ezri. She was - my time with her was like the Crooked Warden's gift to me. Something beautiful, in an ugly world - and it was a miracle that we met. That she liked me, too."

He looks at Locke, then, piercingly. "But you, Locke. I've known you since I was ten. You - I don't even know who I am without you; what kind of life I would lead if you weren't around. I don't think I could even recognise myself."

A cold, sinking feeling comes over Locke: one he'd felt five years ago, when Chains was dead; when he was made _garrista_. He remembers the moment clearly: the morning after the funeral - exhausted, mourning, lost - he'd found himself in front of Sabetha's room, knocked, let himself in, and seen that it had been stripped clean. Bare walls, bare shelves, bare closet; not even a hair left behind to show that she'd ever been there.

"Are you saying - are you going to leave?"

Jean stares at him, dumbfounded. "What - no!"

"I - sorry, that's what it sounded like," Locke mumbles.

"That's the opposite of what I'm saying!" Jean cries. "Locke, I don't know what I'd do without you! And I," - he clears his throat, suddenly hoarse, "I don't think I'd have lived to find out."

"You don't mean that," Locke says weakly.

Softly, Jean says: "Don't count on it."

"It was too much at once," Locke offers quickly. "Rodanov, the archon, the poison... the election. You need a break," he says, confident now. "You'll feel better for it. We'll find a place outside a city - with a lake. We'll fish. You'll see."

Jean stares at him again, dumbfounded. "Oh, gods," he groans, covering his face again. "You're an idiot. Why do I put up with you?"

"Look, I'm just saying - I'm not planning on dying, but with the lives we lead - and I'm not much of a fighter, as you know. You can't - don't say you won't - " He stops, grimacing. Jean doesn't look up. "But I really think," Locke says firmly, "that maybe losing two people at once is a bit too much for anyone."

"This is what I'm saying!" Jean yells, throwing out his arms to indicate Locke's entire person. "Locke, what you need to get into your thick skull is that to me, you - you - oh, fuck it," he says, and leans down to kiss him.

Locke freezes, stunned. Jean's lips are soft and warm against his for the brief moment before Jean pulls away; Locke finds himself looking at Jean's eyelashes against his cheek, something Locke's never had to consider before. Jean darts another glance at Locke, his eyes soft. "Forgive me," he whispers, and leans in again, pressing a yearning kiss to Locke's mouth, to the jut of his cheekbone, and a last lingering one to his brow. He rests his forehead against Locke's, and Locke can feel every trembling breath against his skin.

"I, um," Locke manages, after far too long a silence, during which he'd agonised over every exhalation.

"Shut up; let me finish," Jean mumbles, pulling slightly away. He seems to steel himself. "Alright. That's how it is. Do you see?"

"What?" He touches his lip, blanking.

Jean grabs his shoulders and pulls him none too gently forward, so that their noses almost touch, and gives him a little shake. "You're important to me - I care about you - I can't lose you! Why don't you understand this?"

"I do!"

"Do you?"

"I know, Jean."

"Maybe you know, but you don't _know_ ," Jean says, prodding him in the chest.

"Alright, perhaps; but I have some idea, because I feel the same way about you!"

Jean's grip tightens. Locke sighs. "Or I thought I did, until about a minute ago," he admits. "What about Ezri, Jean?"

"I loved her," Jean says, his voice unwavering. "I always will. But Locke, when I almost lost you... I think you're my Sabetha. You know," he hurries to clarify, "I think I've loved you since I met you - since that night on the roof - but I just... I was so used to it, I'd never really thought about it before."

The crunch of gravel beneath their feet fills the silence as Locke tries to gather a response.

"I know," Jean says quietly, "that you've got Sabetha. I'm not asking for anything. I only wanted you to know."

"Alright." Locke smiles, a little wry. "My turn to stew over it?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not going anywhere, you know," he feels compelled to say.

"I know that, jackass," Jean says, laughing.

"Just making sure."

"If I'd thought I could lose you over something like this, I wouldn't have said a word. 'Dissolve my friendship, you cannot.'"

He reaches out and squeezes Jean's arm. "You know they fought to the death after that, right?"

"You know what I mean."

He puts one foot in front of the other, mechanically; the steady pace creates a soothing sense of endlessness, of distance. Jean seems calm now, having said his piece. It's almost hard to look at him - it's just Jean, as he's always been, but Locke thinks he understands what Jean had meant when he said that he'd just never thought about Locke in that context before. Jean's essential. Ubiquitous. What they have has never been in question - any sort of question.

"Jean," he says, hesitant - has he ever been hesitant with Jean?

"Yeah?"

"Would you - could I - ?" He tugs Jean to a stop. Jean looks amused, even indulgent - but Locke can feel that, under his hand, the muscles of Jean's arm are tense.

"What is it?"

"I've never thought about this before," Locke admits. "Not just you, but - men."

"I did say I wasn't expecting anything."

"Yes, but - " Locke's not used to this: having to force words out. "I think - with you. I think maybe," and if he closes his eyes, he can almost see it. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't ask."

"And I shouldn't say yes." Jean's voice is gravelly, and gods, if it doesn't send a frisson down Locke's spine to hear it. "But Crooked Warden, how could I say no?" He steps close, then closer still, until Locke - this time, not numbed with shock - can feel the warmth of his proximity. His hands cup Locke's cheeks, tender but for the scalding brush of thumb calluses against his heated skin, and suddenly Locke is surrounded by Jean, to the exclusion of everything else, even the spread of sky.

They breathe the same air for a long minute, Locke hardly knowing where to look: Jean's eyes, Jean's lips, Jean's skin, all before him; the rise and fall of Jean's chest drawing his breaths into sync. Slowly, Locke closes the small distance between them. When they're a hairs-breadth apart he can feel his eyelashes brush Jean's optics; he takes a breath, and leans in.

It's a warm press of lips on lips; Locke cradled, enfolded by Jean's broad frame; the wide world narrowed to this small space of gravelled road. How had he thought that this might feel strange? It's all familiar: the press of Jean's body against his, their closeness, the sense of ease and protection, and - as the kiss deepens - the exhilaration of a rapid descent into chaos.

Given how closely he's pressed up against Jean, bracing himself against him on tiptoes in order to ford the difference in their heights, Locke thinks the outcome of this experiment must be making itself apparent to Jean. When they break for air, he presses just one more soft kiss to Jean's bottom lip before settling back on his heels, smiling up at Jean.

"So?" Jean asks, smiling back like he can't help himself.

"A resounding success, I'd say."

"Agreed."

Locke tucks himself under Jean's arm and slides an arm behind his back, with a little prod to get him going. "Come on. We want to get to Tivale before it's dark."

"I'm not sure we can make good time with you leaning against me like this."

Locke leans on him even more heavily in response. Jean shoves him upright, laughing. "Jerk."

"Asshole."

The sun is setting over the fields and the distant hills beyond. _Red sky at night, a pirate's delight_ , as Ezri had told them all those months ago; tomorrow morning there'll be perfect weather for sailing.

"You know," Locke says thoughtfully, "I think Sabetha always knew."

"What?"

"That we - loved each other, more than anyone else."

"Or that I loved you, at least," says Jean.

"Yeah."

"How did she feel about it?"

"Jealous of you, I think. In that, she wished that you liked her as much as you like me. So - maybe - I don't know."

"What - you think she'll be okay with this?"

Locke glances at Jean, who seems deep in thought. "Maybe," he says, cautiously. "What about you?"

Jean hums. "You know, I think... I'm used to you loving her. It's never made me insecure."

"Isn't that a different situation?"

"I don't think so." He pauses. "Though it's all theoretical, at this point."

Locke sighs. "I don't think I could pick either of you over the other," he says truthfully, "but I want you to know: I wouldn't leave you for her, Jean."

Jean is silent for long enough that Locke feels compelled to grab his hand and say, "I mean it."

"You've spent your whole life chasing her," he points out - gently, as if Locke's the one being recalcitrant.

"And I know how to live without her," Locke says firmly, "but not without you."

Jean says - slowly, measuredly - "You know well that no matter what you choose, you'll never have to."

It takes all of Chains' training for Locke to keep his voice stolid. "It will never come to that." He tightens his grip on Jean's hand, just enough to remind him that he's there. "Never."

Jean's shoulders loosen by degrees. Finally, he brushes a thumb over the back of Locke's hand. "Alright."

They walk like that in silence for a time, hand in hand, surrounded by wheat glowing orange in the dying light. By the time Tivale comes into view, the sun is sinking, finally, below the horizon. They stop by unspoken consensus at the crest of a hillock, to watch the last red rays fade into night.

Locke turns to smile up at Jean. “'I can no more run from you than I can from the turning of the sun,'" he says, softly.

"Nor I you," Jean says, "you sap," - and kisses him again. 


End file.
